Methamphetamine
by Bishoppe
Summary: Reality is for the weak, Sonic.


**METHAMPHETAMINE**

You bled rivers of dust in your trail, breathed wind as if it were your fuel, and never looked back. No, Sonic never looks back. Looking back means remembering what you had already run past, and what you had already run past was now irrelevant.

'Never look back' is what you'd always say. So what are you doing now, hedgehog? Looking back?

Fool.

You've always been the imaginative one in your family, hedgehog. Coming up with wild tales all the time. No wonder you did so well in art class. In philosophy class. In chemistry class. Those subjects had concepts that were so easy to morph into surreal ideas. You always thought of elaborate schemes when identifying the interactions between atoms and molecules, and that helped you learn, didn't it?

It was innocent, the mind of a child – untainted by the brunt of reality that hits you when you get older. You never truly lost that magical, childish glint in your eyes, Sonic, especially when you were drawing out your adventures.

"Maurice, you're so creative! Come here, honey, look what he drew!" your mother would exclaim. You were just a young baby hedgehog then. Your father would look over your drawing, smile warmly, and kiss you on the head. Totally normal. As you grew up, your drawings became more elaborate, and you no longer drew of simple things.

Then there was the car accident. You were only ten years old, Sonic. It wasn't your fault.

Your father couldn't deal with the guilt, let's put it that way. A loose noose is the last of him you ever saw.

Your drawings changed after that day. Your mother noticed you no longer drawing panoramic landscapes or intricate cities or flying sailboats. All you drew from that day on was nothing but blue blurs.

That's it.

Just blue blurs. Sometimes with two dots of jade.

Your mother would frown in contemplation when she saw you scribbling away obsessively, on your fourteenth picture. That was the dawn of your fading grip on reality.

You always loved to run, Sonic. When that was taken away from you, what else does someone expect you to do? Of course you're going to dream. Of course you're going to dream about a reality where you can run to your heart's content. Of course you're going to create a world that isn't your own – a world where you can be the hero. It was expected, after all, to dream of the one thing you cannot have.

A best friend. A rival. An enemy. A universe of helpless civilians, ripe for saving from an insane scientist. Ah, this was the fruit of entertainment; but the fun did not end there. Yes, even a well-intentioned fan to chase you around; to inject pride into your veins like a syringe, to let you know that you're wanted by someone, needed by someone. You could almost feel ashamed of your lack of modesty. _Almost._

A young woman came by to visit you in the hospital a few days ago with a pitying expression. Who was it? You didn't know who it was, a friend maybe? A friend from your reality? She had gloves on. White gloves. You didn't know her name, nor did you care for it; you only cared for her gloves. The way they felt in your hands – they felt just like Amy's. The woman saw how attached you became to them and gave them to you as a gift. You refused to part with them. The doctors would look at each other, puzzled, when they saw you cradling those gloves lovingly.

If you thought hard enough, you could almost feel that death-grip that Amy gives you when she gives you one of her killer hugs. You would inwardly smile – she made you feel loved. And you loved her. It was just a show of pride to reject her advances. A display of arrogance, just to feel like a prize, knowing you're something she cannot have. God damn it, you loved her.

'_She isn't real.'_

No, stop thinking that, Sonic. She is fucking real. Just hold the glove closer and you could almost smell her sweet scent once again.

So what was it, then, that caused this sudden lurch back into reality? Perhaps it was the sudden hurt from your (non-existent) legs as you sit in your wheelchair at the wrong angle. Perhaps it was the fact that you overdosed again a few days ago, and the screaming and fretting about made by your mother snapped you back into reality. Could have been anything, really. Does it matter at this point? So long as you can sink back into the river of your subconscious once more, you don't really give a shit what happens to you in the real world anymore.

Your mother's crying by your side – or maybe that was a few hours ago – and you don't care. No, you don't care. How could she ever understand? She has the pleasure of getting up in the morning. She has the privilege of proudly standing up on two long, shapely legs.

Does she fucking understand? No, she doesn't. She never could. She has legs – pretty, shapely, _functioning_ legs.

You see, the idea is to not let reality touch you. No, don't you dare let the grubby, selfish, cruel fingers of reality suck you back from your dreams. Don't you _fucking_ dare. Take another dose. Go on, take it. Take it, and be immersed within your fantasy world once again. You have your stash somewhere with you, I know you do. You're good at smuggling things. Take it. You have your needle with you, don't you?

Take it slow, Sonic. Breathe. Feel the rush consume you. In just a moment, you'll be running across the globe again, on another mystical adventure.

What was that? A choke? A sob? A moment of weakness? Preposterous. Weakling. If you'd forget about your damn legs for just a second, you might be able to picture it again. Inhaling sharply, you close your eyes.

You're speed. You'll always be speed. Through shut eyes, you imagine the world whizzing past you as you go for your daily run. Just another day, just another run. Just another gust of wind as you fly by at the speed of sound.

_Speed._

Nothing can stop you. You're Sonic the fucking Hedgehog.


End file.
